by the time the sun returns

by the time the sun returns most of my frame is in a box.

each evening the skeleton moves closer to ground as if to give night permission to pull me ever deeper. restlessness mummifies what’s left of me forcing a fight to sit upright and gaze into the thinly veiled disappointment of his spotlight.

just barely do i move my toes in anxiety, well aware his tendency to overlook the overshadowing tremble of need. it isn’t clear if i hate day more than night but because i am closer to dirt than sky, it must be that oxygen is the lesser friend.